


show me joy, flower through disarray

by merik24



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dream Pack, M/M, Prokopinsky, i just wanted an excuse to write protective Kavinsky, mild angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merik24/pseuds/merik24
Summary: Outside, Proko took a few more steps on the asphalt before finally giving in and joining him in the Mitsu.That was Prokopenko's problem. He always caved in before he could make a difference and the cycle simply kept repeating.





	show me joy, flower through disarray

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this a [great] while ago, finally decided to post it.

The white Mitsubishi Evo turned the corner, reeling off the side of the road, leaving dust in its tracks. Its driver spun the wheel at the last second, preventing it from crashing into a utility pole. The car veered off to the right and viciously rounded into the gas station. It looked almost anachronistic among the old station, as if the Mitsubishi had crashed through time and into this forgotten part off the highway. ‘ _We’re Open_!’, the stained sign of the decaying convenience store read.

Kavinsky killed the engine and rolled down the driver’s window, lighting a cigarette. The cigarette, a curious green color, produced an identically curious green smoke, an impossible thing. Kavinsky’s passenger did not so much as blink an eye; he was used to bearing witness to Joseph Kavinsky’s impossibilities.

Prokopenko slid off the passenger seat, shorter-than-necessary sweat shorts exposing perfect porcelain skin. Kavisnky shrugged as he watched him make his way to the store with that graceful, teasing walk of his, shorts riding up dangerously close to his ass with each step. His ash blond head disappeared inside, leaving Kavinsky to plan out the night ahead, which by the looks of it was bound to be a memorable one.

Kavinsky took a long drag of his impossible cigarette, fiddling with the air conditioner until it was blasting all the way up. Late summer heat floated through the open window and clashed with the cool air inside. The radio blared offensive foreign rap, echoing in the small clearing. The Mitsubishi was alone save for a ratty Rover on the other side of the station.

Kavinsky observed as the door of the store opened and two boys around his age came out along with Prokopenko. One of them, a tall broad-shouldered man had his hand fisted in Proko’s collar and was shoving him hard against a wall. Kavinsky gripped the steering wheel. Flicking his cigarette off to the ground, he got out and slammed the driver’s door with force. As he got closer he could hear the guy’s verbal assaults.

“You little slut,” He slid a hand under Prokopenko’s shirt. Proko visibly shivered through gritted teeth, his eyes an angry pool threatening to overflow.

Kavinsky’s clenched fists begged for contact.

“You wanna suck me off, faggot?” 

The other guy laughed at the rich vocabulary of his companion.

Kavinsky reached for the man, fist burying deep into his gut. The guy doubled over and Kavinsky punched him two, three more times for good measure.

As he went down to his knees, Kavinsky seized him by the throat. His friend was frozen to his spot a few feet away. “If you ever lay a finger on him again,” He hissed low into the man’s ear. “I will tear your insides out.”

Blood dripped from the guy’s chin onto Kavinsky’s hand.

“Am I clear?” Kavinsky gripped his throat dangerously before letting him go. The guy whimpered, coughing and nodding frantically.

Shoving him to the ground, Kavinsky grabbed Prokopenko’s arm and led them to the Mitsubishi and out of the gas station in one swift move. He raced himself to the next exit, stopping at the edge of an open field.

Prokopenko had his knees pulled up to his chest and was furiously trying to wipe his tears away. He hated when people saw him crying (or the act of crying itself, K wasn’t sure which). The only time Kavinsky had seen him cry was in the boys’ bathroom at Aglionby the first week after he’d transferred.

Prokopenko hated showing it, but he was fragile. Not just in his gentle hands, his delicate skin and features. He was fragile deep in his soul, beneath the steel cage he had built around himself. But Kavinsky knew and he understood and he wanted to drive back and kill them for touching what was _his_.

He reached to smear a tear with his thumb in an unusual moment of tenderness, holding Proko’s chin and forcing his attention back to Kavinsky.

“I don’t need you to deal with my business,” Proko’s voice was coarse and uneven but with a harsh edge to it. “I can damn well do it myself.”

He shook Kavinsky’s hand away and got off the car. Proko’s eyebrows were furrowed in a disgusted grimace, a look that didn’t suit his soft features. He started hacking at some weed with his foot until it was uprooted, tossed to the side of the road. It had rained last night and the earth was still damp; his long legs were splattered with dirt, but he didn’t seem to care as he continued demolishing foliage.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He swore in time with each forceful stomp of his foot.

Kavinsky let him have his moment, opting instead for lighting another cigarette.

Proko was angry at himself, K knew. He was always the first to try and knock your teeth out if you ever messed with the pack. You dared to look at any of them the wrong way and Prokopenko would make sure your life became a series of miserable events and then some.

And yet, there he was, leaning on the Mitsu’s hood, unable to even take out his own anger on the world.

Kavinsky decided he’d had enough alone time. Joining him outside, K handed Proko what was left of his cigarette but Proko didn’t take it. K scoffed, took one last drag drag and crushed it under his foot.

“Come on, Proko,” Prokopenko stared at the empty field. “Who cares, just fuck ‘em.”

Proko whirled his head back. Joseph Kavinsky did not have a reputation for having the right words at the right times. Proko’s eyes were thunders and tropical storms.

“You’re just like them, you know. I’m just an object to you, something to play with and ridicule when you’re bored, to fuck when convenient.” The words were spat out. 

Kavinsky sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood for one of Proko’s. “Let’s just get in the car and get the hell out of here, alright?”

He looked away, adding as an afterthought. “I’m hungry.” K reached for Proko’s arm but the boy pushed him away again.

“ _Майната ти_ , Proko,” Kavinsky’s fist came down on the Mitsu’s hood, making a popping sound. He didn’t look at Proko as he spoke. “What do you want me to say, huh?”

He knew precisely what Proko wanted him to say. That what they had was something else, that those late nights when Prokopenko stayed next to him as Kavinsky’s nightmares threatened to overtake him meant more, that Kavinsky cared…But K could not offer him this solace.

Instead, Kavinsky got back in the car and found the most annoying rap he had on his Spotify to blast. He bit on his nail, an old habit he’d bring up when he was aggravated. Outside, Proko took a few more steps on the asphalt before he finally gave in and joined him in the Mitsu.

That was Prokopenko's problem. He always caved in before he could make any difference and the cycle simply kept repeating. 

The music was loud enough to drown out any conversation, but K could see Proko had no intention to talk anyway. His gaze was far over the fields all the way back from the highway through Henrietta’s familiar green landscape and finally to the Kavinskys’ mansion.

Proko got off silently as Kavinsky parked in the garage alongside the yellow Golf.

“I’m gonna take a walk.” Proko murmured, still refusing to look at him. He retrieved his phone and keys and was gone.

Kavinsky cursed under his breath. He really didn’t want to be alone tonight. But he really wasn't going to swallow his stubbornness away either.

An agonizingly slow hour later K called him.

“Hey,”

He was sprawled on the couch in the living room, beer in hand, some stupid reality show playing on mute on the flat screen. “You comin’ back soon or nah?”

There was silence on the other end. Then,

“I’m sleeping over at Skov’s tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Proko hung up.

 _Damn it_. Why did he have to be such a little bitch? He knew what Kavinsky was. He’d chosen this back when he’d joined the pack, when he’d become Kavinsky’s.

He woke up hours later to the door opening and the slight shift of the bed as someone’s weight was applied to it. Kavinsky smelled his cologne before he saw him. Prokopenko lied down with his back to him. He had changed into jeans and a tee and Kavinsky crawled to him in his half-asleep, half-drunken state, putting his arms around Proko’s middle. Proko flinched but otherwise didn’t move away.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Kavinsky muttered against Proko’s shoulder.

“You know how I get when I’m angry.” It was a lame excuse at best and borderline psychological abuse at worst, but as usual, it was the only one Kavinsky could provide.

Proko took it silently, letting K eventually creep closer to his motionless figure. Proko turned off the light and they lay like this in the dark until one of them drifted back to sleep and the other continued to stare pensively at the ceiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> This ship/series owns me, but Proko should definitely dump K's ass.  
> (slightly?) inspired by Bastille's Fake It, hence the title. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! You can find me at a-juuzou-a-day.tumblr.com if you wanna talk TRC or any other fandoms you find on there. 
> 
> As usual, comments/suggestions/prompts are very welcome!


End file.
